


Shades of the Past

by Razzy_ShamelessNerd



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Under the Red Hood
Genre: Color, Gen, Jason Todd Birthday Week, day three, jtbdayweek2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-26 01:52:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15653337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Razzy_ShamelessNerd/pseuds/Razzy_ShamelessNerd
Summary: Red wasn't always Jason's favorite color. But coming back from the dead has a way of skewing your perception of things. For Jason Todd Birthday Week 2018.





	Shades of the Past

Jason always had a deep appreciation for irony. It kind of went with his life's story.

Starving to bones but using what little money they had for heroin? Ironic.

Billionaire picks up an orphaned street rat? Ironic.

Trying to kill the man that turned his life around? Ironic.

Taking on the maybe-alias of the man that had killed him? Oh, _deeply_  ironic.

But none of it had actually been planned. Jason knew himself to be a man of calculated risks, constantly striding along the edge between suicidal and impossible. He'd tip things in his favor as far as he could, sure, but there came a point where nothing was certain and action had to be taken. He had no time for stagnation or sitting around doing nothing, playing by the goodbook for mediocre results. No, he'd become a precision weapon in mind, method and body -- and he knew it.

How ironic for a Robin, once learning at the knee of the most strictly non-lethal crime fighter, had come to freely shed blood.

He'd never intended to take on the mantle of Red Hood, of course. It just seemed... well, ironic. And hadn't he learned that from Bruce, so well? He'd taken the name of the thing that he feared most. For Bruce, it had been bats. For Jason, well... it'd always been about the man under the Red Hood.

To be honest, back in the day, he couldn't envision Robin ever coming to an end. He'd been so caught up in the moment back then, like he'd been his whole life. When every night on the streets meant a risk you wouldn't see the dawn, one tended to develop that mentality. He'd had vague ideas of what he might do, when he got older. But then, Batman and Robin were his world. Growing out of the role never crossed his mind much, but he'd always thought he'd choose something a little more his favorite color.

Yeah, sure, red certainly took his pick of favorites now, but it hadn't always.

Back then, he'd loved anything and everything green.

And now, in the height of June heat and surrounded by the flourishing city trees and little planters full of hostas, he longed for the blankness of gray winter. His favorite color, everywhere, and he couldn't look at it for very long; fitting, then, that red had become his favorite -- the complementary opposite to green. How amusing that he -- Jason Todd, hater of cold -- wished winter were back, muting the violent array of colors.

Jason always had a deep appreciation for irony.

But today, he didn't find any humor in it. It happened, sometimes, on days that were just _off._  No real reason, it just happened now and again. Usually when something reminded him of something he'd rather put behind. He'd always been a man that lived in the moment. Few things could keep his mood down but if he couldn't escape it, like a particularly persistent mosquito in his ear?

Well, that'd drive anyone batty.

Heh. _Batty._

June had kicked into high gear and the world had come back to life again.

Heh.

_Again._

As ever, June held up to its reputation as the most beautiful month of the year. With the moody indecisiveness of May behind, everything burst forth in all things distinctly summer. Posters for fruit smoothies, sunglasses and shorts covered half the bus stop walls. The smell of hot concrete, coconut, and sunscreen pervaded the crowded sidewalks. Jason just tugged his hat lower and kept his sunglasses on, more to defend his eyes from the violent fluorescent hues that seemed to be in season than to keep his face hidden.

He remembered he used to love June. Hell, back when he was younger and smaller and weaker, summer meant life. Food could easily be found, tourists were easy marks, and on the really hot days, he could get all the water he wanted when someone cracked open a hydrant for the kids to cool down. Even got to feel a little clean, too. June heralded warm summer rain, open grills in front of restaurants easy to steal from, and air-conditioned breezes wafting from open store fronts.

And in the evening, when the sun started to get low and the daylight got long and golden, everyone seemed a little kinder. Relaxed, happily adrift in a pleasant haze borne from a pleasant day, enjoying the weather that hadn't gotten too hot and humid yet and had finally cast off the lingering edge of bitter winter. These were the golden days of summer, when everything felt _just right,_  and people were eager to get out and get drunk on petrichor and rejoice in the flourishing of the earth.

Then there were the trees. Big ones, for inner city things, doomed to never get bigger than their two stories thanks to crowded roots, but they brought a much needed touch of green to the city. They cooled the sidewalks and added a soothing rustle at the slightest breeze and if you were small enough and fast enough, you could climb high enough the bigger kids couldn't reach or see you. He should know -- he'd been a stellar climber long before Batman had ever picked him up.

"Quite the spider monkey, sir," Alfred had described him once. It'd been found out he'd been stealing food and caching it a small niche in the cave. When instructed to get it down, he'd climbed the cave wall like a lizard, wedging fingers and toes into tiny nooks to scramble up to his hiding spot. Where he then perched and defiantly ate a granola bar. Just to show that he could.

One particularly ancient oak tree shaded most of the west side of the apartment building Jason let himself into. The position of this safehouse wasn't all that special. It had no strategic positioning, no secret access, not even conveniently located to anything but a small taco joint that kept weird hours. Other than being totally innocuous and pretty quiet, there was no reason for him to pick it as one of many safehouses in the city. To be honest... he just liked the tree. Bigger than most in the city thanks to the building still having a dirt courtyard. Today, he collapsed in his bed right beneath the window and stared up at the branches of the tree. The wind jostled the leaves and he closed his eyes to breathe in the faintest wisp of fresh air off the coast.

June, the most rejuvenating month of the year. He'd always believed that. It'd always been fact. He could keep track of the dates just by the color of the leaves. It grounded him, made him dream he could feel the pulse of green living things under his feet. It reminded him he'd survived another year on the streets, despite all odds.

But ever since his resurrection, some gorgeous days of June didn't feel revitalizing. Some days the brightness and vitality left him feeling old and worn, like faded dollar bills that'd been folded up and gone through the wash too many times.

Even with his eyes closed, he could see the green shade of sunlight through oak leaves. He dropped an arm over his eyes, finding peace in the black.

But the green lingered. It never left him, not anymore. Once it'd been the color of everything he'd wanted -- money. Power. Even Robinson Park, where the the serious dealers went to get their monthly supply at night, had been an avenue of escape for him. It didn't matter that the straggling shrubs had covered more than a fair count of bodies. He loved visiting that park at every chance with his mother, loved chasing the ice cream truck he couldn't buy anything from and watching with envious eyes as other boys ran with their dogs. Green had been the color of warmth and life and freedom and strength.

He saw it everywhere. In the way a stack of bills could get them enough to eat comfortably for weeks. In the way the richer houses had their own patches of lush grass to cultivate and manicure behind pleasant fences. He tasted it in the way the most crisp, tart apples practically glowed with the vibrancy of their parent tree, their sour skin a burst of rich, real flavor in his mouth, so different from microwave dinners that tasted faintly of cardboard. He could smell it in the air whenever it rained and the wind came in just right from the direction of the park, filling his young body with a jolting energy he couldn't ascribe to anything other than the ascendance of summer.

And when he got to the Manor? His love affair with the color had only deepened. Finally having his own, seemingly endless lush and manicured lawn to run in? The first time he'd run through the grass barefoot, not having to fear about broken glass and bent needles had been like shedding years of misery. He eagerly assisted Alfred in tending to the modest vegetable garden the butler kept. Tomatoes were his favorite -- staking and pruning the branches had left a spicy scent on his fingers that smelled like summer to him.

He'd always remember the first time he saw fireflies. Little flying lights that couldn't survive in the city flourished on the verdant Wayne estate. He'd caught his first ones at age twelve, long after most kids had outgrown the activity, and marveled at their chartreuse glow. That's when he really started to believe in magic.

All the green things in his life had been things he wanted and couldn't have. He liked the old pine trees in the park, refusing to shed their summery mantle even in winter. They were strong, defiant, and it made sense to him, then, that all good things in the world were attached to the color of June's herald.

He'd nearly laughed at the Robin suit when he saw the bright colors for the first time. No one had seen Robin really, not up close, not on his street. But rumors spread and through various piecemeal, a vague image could be formed. They could all agree on the yellow and red but the green? That'd been harder to see and he thought it fitting. It means power. Strength. It had the subtly of understated power; no matter how dead it might seem, it rose again. Like the seasons and the single rose bush his mother magically kept alive. When he first saw that suit and it's strange palette, he saw it as a sign. He wore that target proudly, defying the dead blacks and grays of Gotham, daring its darkness to restrain the kudzu vine of his irrepressible vigor.

In the end, it'd done better than restrain him. It'd done better than chase him away.

He'd died in a brown land, all lush color burnt from it. In the end, the black smoke of the city he'd flown from had curled around his mouth and sucked out his last breath.

The first thing he saw was _green._  Glowing, sickly, bilious. He still had dreams -- memories -- of choking on the color. He remembered drowning in jade water that wouldn't let him die. It'd faded, over the years since, but he could feel it still, now and then. Where before he dreamed a child's dream of the earth pulsing beneath him, he felt something colder, slicker, threading through his veins. For two years, his eyes had a strange greenish cast to them, their altered color scaring even him when he first saw his reflection.

Despite the June warmth and the happy rustle of growing things, Jason felt cold. Even as he drifted into an uneasy sleep, waiting for the blanket of night to hush the riot of summer splendor, he knew the slimy feeling of dead, wet flesh waited for him.

He still had nightmares of beryl light, forcing its way into him, filling him until he ended up vomiting swarms upon swarms of fireflies. Thousands of them, clogging his eyes and nose and mouth until he woke up, gasping for air. Those were the good dreams.

The worst ones....

He was flying. Always flying in those. It had to be June because everything was green and perfect and not too hot or cold, and there weren't any buildings. No towers of stone, no gargoyle-draped monoliths looming over him, crowding out the sky. But still, he flew, slinging around by the strong grapple line as he soared over the clean, green grass, his cape snapping behind him. Always going somewhere but he had nowhere to be. He felt so incredibly light, as light as his namesake and turned his face to the fresh air rushing in his face and through his hair. He was Robin and he could fly. He had magic and it showed in the way he could trot over ponds dotted with lily pads and never break the water; how he could dive for pearls and never need to come up for air. He dreamed of being young, free of fear and hunger and he was always flying over trees and soft fields to home.

And when he woke up, the world had changed. Everything was hard and loud and bright and full of pain. There'd be tears on his face and he'd no idea why.

See, the real nightmares aren't always about blood and laughter and a pale face threatening to eat him as he ran. They were bad, sure; he'd woken up in a panic with a raw throat more than once. People often woke screaming and crying because of the devils in their dreams.

But Jason's true nightmares were of Heaven.

He appreciated the irony.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written on my porch, during the long sunset of a June afternoon, in the country of Southern Michigan. Inspired by summer rain.
> 
> It always occurred to me that Hell is not always about torment and flames and demons and agony. You're allowed to escape. You're allowed to dream. And what greater punishment could there be, if you were permitted to dream of Heaven, only to awaken in Hell once more?


End file.
